Big Time Fancy

This is a post about birth control.
Too effing bad if you have a problem with that.

I’m on the patch. Technically, it’s called Ortho Evra. I like to refer to them as No-Baby Stickers. They sit on my ass and throw a truckload of hormones into my system, and I switch ‘em out once a week and so far they’ve been successful (it’s been 5 years).

And when I say a truckload of hormones, I mean a truck like the one pictured. Sometimes this is good - within 2 months of being on the stuff, I jumped from a B cup to a C cup. Currently I’m a D. In common phrasing, we call this “stacked.” And I tan faster than any other human being alive, because this stuff makes my skin all sensitive. And sometimes, this is not so good. When I first started I was prone to random bout of sobbing my face off for no reason whatsoever.

And sometimes (read: today), this turns me into a big pile of hormone and libido.
Which made Fancy’s sex-themed text messages all the more perfectly-timed.

My boss is in Denver. My coworker is on bedrest. My office is mostly silent as everyone is anticipating the long weekend. So we’re doing little else than bothering each other on gchat. Here’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time, from anyone. And by heard I mean, “Was typed to me over gchat”. Same difference…:

Coworker: OMG. THEY HAVE THE SAME LETTERS! COCKSLAP & CAPSLOCK! I saw one and TOTALLY thought you meant the other!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I cannot think of a better way to sum up my work week than that.

PS: I have a half day on Thursday and am going to the beach with Ninja directly afterwards. Consider yourselves invited, local readers.

It’s Monday. I just put my 31-weeks pregnant coworker in an ambulance because she had a) blacked out, b) turned green, and c) couldn’t breathe. So if everyone could just think a nice thought or something for her, that would be pretty excellent.
That said, I’d like a stiff drink to calm me the fuck down, though I’m sure that if I tried to convince my poor liver to process any more booze, it would claw its way out of my body due to the excessive amount of alcoholism from this weekend…

Friday was notable in that I got drunk with more bloggers than I got drunk with LAST time I got drunk with bloggers. We took over a sizable portion of a Wrigleyville beer garden so that Maxie and Deutlich could drink away the stress of driving for 12 hours in a day, and a ton of people showed up to meet them (and, ya know, drink). Some were old friends, some were old friends that I hadn’t met yet, and some were completely new to me.

We consumed beers and bomb shots and discussed porn, and video games, and Tony & Tina’s Wedding, and how Alexa totally bit it in Cleveland, and it was just a marvelous drunken time.

Saturday involved my heading back out to suburbia for the wedding of one of my best boy friends in the world, T. The ceremony itself was right out of a movie, with the readings from First Corinthians, and the traditional vows and the “I Do’s”, and I totally cried because I am a crier and that’s what I do.

The reception was a big pile of alcoholism and awesomeness at a swanky swanky golf club in the south suburbs. T and his new wife were introduced to the tune of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” - which is pretty much the best thing in the whole world, as far as reception introductions are concerned. I brought my little sister as my date (as she and the groom are close as well), and she and I imbibed in a few adult beverages and danced around with the groomsmen, and T’s friend who wore his Airforce dress uniform to the ceremony, and asked me if I “wanted to know what all the medals meant”.

On Sunday, I headed back to Chicago, with my liver aching just enough to remind me how many drinks I’d had the last two nights. I decided to shut it up with more beers, via Miss Roommate & Popped Collar’s prized, handmade beerpong table. And I do mean prized, they’ve poured their little guts into making this thing look like it cost a million bucks.

So Miss Roommate and Popped Collar faced off against me and Popped Collar’s friend, The Dean. And The Dean and I spanked ‘em, and won two out of three rounds. Tonguing the ball before throwing it really seemed to help.

We bought two bottles of red wine prior to dinner, and drank one during dinner.

We toasted to “Our first date. Fucking finally.”

We ate a whole lot of steak and talked about…everything.

And then came the fun part…and the fun part where I lost feeling in my hands, feet and teeth.

Ladies and gentlemen, that was a perfect date.

Edited to add: I didn’t notice this earlier. But I totally have a perfect handprint on my ass.

The Marine and I are going out to dinner tonight.

Not to some shitty bar where we will get loaded. Not to one of our houses where we will throw a frozen pizza in the oven and call it a night.

We are GOING. OUT. TO. DINNER. Like, on a date.

Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here FREAKING OUT.

(We’ve known each other for almost a year, and have never “gone out”. The closest we’ve come to that was when I took him to my company Christmas party. Usually we default to watching a movie and making out. And once we went to a bar by my house and watched the Cubs last year. And sometimes we meet up in the mornings and go to Starbucks. This is a VERY. BIG. THING.)

EDITED TO ADD: So. We’re going to Tango Sur (on Southport) and then getting ice cream after. I’m in charge of wine and having a sweet rack. He’s in charge of…whatever he decides he wants to be in charge of. YAY!